Order of the Centurion

by Jason Anspach

  A dog-man scrambled to the top of the cliff, the first to arrive. It was panting heavily from the exertion and seemed surprised to see Wash just kneeling there. The doro hurriedly raised its rifle and sent a shot above Wash’s head.

  If the doro was surprised, Wash was stunned. Stunned that he was being shot at here and now. This was a private time. A time of grief between him and his friend.

  Get angry.

  But instead he felt… morose. He had no blaster rifle. He was resigned to joining his friend in death. He’d done what they’d set out to do.

  Handle these last few seconds like your life depends on it.

  Something clicked, deep down inside of him. Wash’s hand brushed his hip, and he felt his sidearm.

  The doro was carefully lining up for a kill shot, sensing no threat from the broken human before it.

  Wash drew the weapon in a flash and sent a blaster bolt straight into the dog-man’s head, causing it to drop in a heap and roll back over the side of the ridge.

  Feeling like a zombie, Wash trudged to the edge of the cliff and looked down. The other doros were still climbing up to him. His eyes unblinking, Wash shot the climbers one by one, driving smoking holes in their skulls and watching their bodies tumble back down to the valley.

  Some of the doros leapt away, slip-sliding on the shale. But most kept climbing.

  Wash kept firing until his charge pack was depleted. Then he threw the useless weapon at one of the doros, turned away, and took a seat next to his friend.

  Now.

  Now he had done all he could. He’d lived his last few moments fighting like his life depended on it.

  Now he wanted to die next to a friend he’d had since youth.

  His best friend.

  Berlin was his best friend.

  The roar of incoming SLICs raced in from behind Wash, and the wind they generated blew his hair and billowed his fatigues. A bird hovered above him like a protective mother, orienting its door gunner to face the approaching doros.

  The guns rang like unholy chimes, ripping the climbing doros into ribbons while Wash could only sit there, stunned. Drained.

  More SLICs roared overhead. They tore across the valley and launched rockets into the doros still charging the ridge where the marines had dug in. Pluming fireballs erupted amid the dog-men, sending them flying in all directions, in pieces and aflame.

  The versatile craft were flying around the battlefield like a coordinated swarm of locusts. Guns buzzed and blazed, and rockets utterly demolished the jungle tree line where the doros tried in vain to damage the craft with small arms.

  Three more SLICs shot over Wash’s head, hovered protectively at the base of the ridge, and descended until the wheels kissed the ground. A platoon of Republic Army soldiers jumped out and immediately began to swarm over the rocks, strengthening whatever marines remained.

  The SLIC that had arrived first—the one that had taken out the doros coming for Wash—had moved down into the valley to pick off any straggling and fleeing dog-men. But now it popped back up above the canyon wall, directly facing Wash. He could see both pilots plainly through the front canopy window.

  Wash didn’t move from his place, slumped on both knees at Berlin’s side.

  The dirt and wind kicked up as the craft came to rest several meters away. A med bot hopped out and helped to lift Wash to his feet. Then it removed its collapsible stretcher and laid it next to Berlin.

  “No.” Wash shook his head. He bent down and scooped Berlin up in his own arms.

  No one else could touch him.

  No one else would carry him off of Psydon.

  ***

  Inside the SLIC, the med bot delicately placed Berlin inside a body bag. Wash watched the bot work with a sort of morbid fascination. Like he was entranced by what, for the bot, was a mundane aspect of its basic programming.

  Through it all, Wash couldn’t stop staring at Berlin’s ghostly face. His friend’s eyes were still looking, now fixed on the metallic roof of the SLIC instead of Psydon’s skies.

  Somebody should close his eyes. So he can rest.

  But Wash didn’t move. Or rather, he couldn’t move. He felt frozen in place. His body had exerted itself to the limits of its ability and now would do no more.

  So he merely watched as the bot closed the body bag over Berlin’s face, his open-mouthed friend staring upward until he was sealed in darkness.

  Wash wondered if Berlin would be interred in his armor. That was how it usually went with legionnaires. The armor was iconic. A part of them.

  He remembered Berlin’s helmet, still sitting discarded on the ground a short distance from the SLIC.

  “Hey!” Wash called for the crew chief, surprised by the strength of his own voice. “I gotta go outside to get something. It’s important.”

  “Can I get it? You look pretty beat up, pal.”

  Wash shook his head. The med bot had been trying to treat him since he and Berlin first came on board, but Wash had insisted that he wouldn’t go for it until Berlin was taken care of. “I gotta get it myself.”

  The crew chief nodded. “Okay, but hurry up! We’re about to hop over the valley and load up with any wounded before we make the trip back to Cinder Air Base.”

  Wash jumped out of the SLIC. He attempted to bound toward Berlin’s bucket, but managed something more like a shambling hobble. He found the helmet lying where he dropped it. He picked it up and stared into the visor, feeling like Berlin was somehow looking back at him through it.

  The SLIC waited for him, and in a few short moments they were in the air, making the short trip back to the ridge. Wash felt his soul would take more hits over there. A part of himself that he called cowardly wanted to just leave the battlefield and go straight for the hospital at Cinder.

  The battle at the ridge was decidedly over. The arriving SLICs had routed the doro forces, scattering them deep into the jungle. Republic Army soldiers had formed a perimeter while more SLICs arrived to relieve those craft that were low on fuel. The whole area was buzzing with Republic military strength and might.

  The SLIC touched down, and the med bot immediately departed. Wash remained in his jump seat, keeping Berlin company for a few moments. Then he, too, stood up and stepped outside. The crew chief didn’t try to stop him.

  As Wash crunched his way along the rocky ground toward the ridge he’d helped defend, he heard the low, overhead droning of Republic quarter-five bombers. It occurred to him that the artillery had been silent for some time. No doubt they were doing their best to disappear into the jungle.

  The bombers were coming to throw darts in an attempt to find them.

  The first payload dropped by the quarter-fives wasn’t far from Wash. Close enough that he could feel the concussion in his chest and sinuses. The jungle was exfoliated in great plumes of fire, thick with black smoke, annihilating any doros lying in wait for the eventual Republic pursuit.

  More bombers came, systematically carpeting the jungle with their ordnance. Entire trees were uprooted and sent flying as the jungle incinerated at the point of impact. Wash could see the concussive wave of the blasts reverberate through the very humidity of the jungle itself in a radius of boom that he could feel in his chest, in his molars, in his very soul. It was the most fantastic display of firepower he had ever seen.

  Finally, one of the geysers of fire, perhaps twenty kilometers away, flared up even higher than the rest, with a massive secondary explosion. It blew so high into the sky that pursuing bombers had to peel away to avoid the skyward funnels of flame.

  They had found the artillery.

  Wash let out a heavy sigh. Someone—a Legion company, or a Dark Ops kill team—would travel into the jungle to verify that they’d gotten them all. Later, they’d send basics in to recover bodies. Probably a firebase would be set up right were Wash stood.

  But he and the marines had done their part. Those other actions were all yet to come. Meant for people other than Wash. His fight—and more than like
ly his career—was over.

  As he turned away from the raging inferno in the jungle, he saw a med bot approaching the SLIC. It was the same machine that Subs had brought with him, and it was carrying a stretcher with Sergeant Shotton lying atop it. Denturo and Parker were trailing behind.

  Wash ran as fast as he could toward them. All the little bruises, cuts, nicks, and gashes were starting to be felt. Starting to take their toll.

  Denturo held up a strong arm to stop Wash’s progress. “Don’t bother,” he said. “You’re looking at the only marines who made it. No sense goin’ up any farther.”

  Wash looked up at the ridge, now studded with Republic Army basics. It had been hit with so many blaster bolts that the natural deep gray of the mineral now looked almost black.

  “How’s Sergeant Shotton?” he asked.

  “Bot says he’ll be all right,” answered Parker. “Got clocked in the head by a piece of rock, but otherwise he’s okay. Had his helmet on.”

  Wash nodded.

  “How ’bout the major?” Parker asked, his voice subdued, barely audible.

  Wash shook his head. He was already fighting back tears. He didn’t want to look weak in front of these men who’d lost more friends today than he had. “Didn’t… didn’t make it. Guess it’s only the four of us.”

  Denturo spat clear saliva. He was still out of the stim. “Like I said… wasn’t plannin’ on dyin’ today. Neither was you. Ain’t nothin’ to feel bad about.”

  Wash looked around, unsure what else to say.

  Was that all it came down to? Berlin simply planned on dying? Maybe he had. Why else would he have stopped and waited for Wash? He’d planned on dying rather than leave his friend behind.

  More SLICs poured in as the Republic continued to show its strength. Now legionnaires were jumping out of newly arrived SLICs, hustling all out to set up perimeters of their own, relieving the basics. A few squads seemed to have orders to immediately enter the jungle, though it was still smoking and burning in parts.

  The basics from the rocks began to make their way down from the ridge. They seemed to Wash to almost be marching down on parade. Their shoulders were back and their heads were held high. They looked victorious… though perhaps it was more accurate to say they appeared to be crowned with honor.

  Wash spied, in the middle of the procession, a stretcher carrying Subs’s lifeless body. The Dark Ops legionnaire’s arms were folded across his chest, marking his eternal repose. The other legionnaires pulling security nearby, the SLIC crews… they all stopped what they were doing and watched as the Dark Ops legionnaire’s body passed by.

  Wash felt himself straighten up. He didn’t know whether to salute or cry.

  This was because of him. He had done this.

  A new SLIC appeared over the horizon. It was unique in how quiet it was, and instead of the deep jungle green of the other craft, this one was painted a black that seemed to absorb light itself. Six Dark Ops legionnaires jumped from the craft as soon as it landed.

  Or at least that’s what Wash took them for. They were in a state of half-dress for combat, as if the SLIC they took was leaving before they were ready, like a repulsor bus arriving at a sleeping kid’s building. Some were armored from the waist down. Others had only torso pieces and buckets on. A few didn’t even have helmets, just shades and shaggy hair—a sure sign of Dark Ops.

  The new arrivals made straight for Subs. They stopped next to one of the basics carrying the stretcher, who Wash only now realized was the basic Subs had brought with him through the jungle—Alistair. Tears flowed freely from the man’s eyes.

  One of the men without a bucket—wearing a thick blond beard—leaned down and whispered something in Alistair’s ear. The Republic Army soldier said something in return, then stood aside as two Dark Ops legionnaires took up the stretcher containing their fallen comrade.

  Subs’s body was carried to the black SLIC and set gently on board. One of them picked up Subs’s rifle from its place on the stretcher next to the Dark Ops legionnaire’s dead body. Then they all gathered around Alistair and clapped the basic on the back and shoulder. He was crying uncontrollably now. At the order of the bearded man, who appeared to be the team leader, the legionnaires snapped a salute at Alistair.

  Wash realized that Alistair wasn’t the only basic weeping. All the soldiers who came down from the ridge seemed just as affected by Subs’s death. He wondered if they knew the man—if these were the men from Firebase Hitchcock, where Subs had come from.

  The legionnaire holding Subs’s well-worn blaster rifle—the weapon Subs had used with such ruthless aggression to hold back the doros while Wash and Berlin traversed the valley to call for help—handed it to the team leader, who in turn held it out for Alistair to take. The basic did so, his face red and ugly from the ravages of sorrow. The kid made no attempt to hide his grief.

  And then the Dark Ops legionnaires got back on their high-end SLIC. The vehicle’s thrusters whined to life, kicking up as it picked up altitude. It banked over the valley, then flew behind Poro-Poro Peak, disappearing from sight, along with the body of their fallen brother.

  Wash wished he were dead. Not out of a sense of suicidal depression. But out of a desire—perhaps a fantasy—that he could be the one whose heart had stopped so that Berlin and Subs and every marine could go on living.

  But that wasn’t the way it happened. So Wash would have learn how to go on living.

  It seemed a daunting task.

  The Republic Army soldiers began to file back onto waiting transport SLICs, no longer needed now that the Legion proper was filling the area of operations. Parker and Denturo helped the bot load Shotton onto the SLIC that Wash had arrived on. Some of the dead had been loaded on that SLIC as well, and Wash wasn’t sure there would still be room for him. But he would hang off the sides if he had to. He couldn’t leave Berlin alone.

  A trio of legionnaires approached. Their helmets were on, so Wash couldn’t read their expressions, but they walked erect and with purpose. They stopped directly in front of Wash, and the lead man removed his bucket. The disgust on his face was palpable.

  “So you’re the point that got everybody killed ’cause you thought you could do what we do?”

  Wash didn’t reply.

  One of the other legionnaires said, “House of Reason might call you a leej. But you ain’t.”

  Denturo and Parker returned to Wash’s side.

  Wash was too tired to argue. And he didn’t wouldn’t have been able to defend himself anyway. He had left his post. He had gone along with a poorly conceived plan, and men and women had died because of it.

  But to his surprise, Denturo picked the argument up on his behalf.

  The big marine was half a head taller than the legionnaire who’d removed his helmet. Denturo walked forward until he stood toe to toe with the man, like a pair of fighters preparing for the pre-fight photo op. The legionnaire got an up-close look at the cleft in Denturo’s stubbly chin.

  Wash was sure that if the marine had any left, he’d spit a wad of stim juice on the leej’s hair.

  “Fact is,” Denturo said, “the lieutenant saved my sergeant’s life—not to mention the life of every other marine that don’t have to worry about that artillery. Doros weren’t just lightin’ up the Legion.”

  The legionnaire scoffed and looked from side to side as if looking to his buddies for backup. “What? Your hero didn’t save your life too, big man?”

  “Nope. I don’t need savin’. But your ass is about to.”

  “I’d step off if I was you,” warned Parker. “Denturo’s left leejes in traction before. Y’all ain’t invincible.”

  Finally, the three legionnaires’ CO realized what was going on, and he shouted for the men to return to their squad. “LS-18, get your butt back here! I’m trying to wade out into the jungle to kill some dog-men, and you’re over there makin’ kissy-face with a marine!”

  The legionnaire took an easy step backward, his eye on Denturo. “
See you around another time, huh, hullbuster?”

  “You’d better hope not, you queer sonofabitch.”

  The legionnaire snarled and looked at Wash, not slacking his slow retreat, stepping backward along with his two buddies, refusing to turn his back. “Watch your back, point. Don’t think you’re safe just because you go back to your little cushy base in the rear. This is Psydon. And that means you can still pay for what you did.”

  And with that, the legionnaire turned and rejoined his unit.

  “Forget that guy,” Parker said. “He doesn’t know anything. What we did today won this war for the Republic. Every leej out here knows it. We saved a lot of lives, Lieutenant.”

  Wash felt utterly spent. It seemed to take everything in him just to muster a few words. “Thanks. To both of you. At the Academy, they’d say that a hullbuster is just a wannabe leej without the armor. But you guys are a breed of your own. The Republic is lucky to have you.”

  “Damn right,” said Denturo.

  That was the last Wash spoke to the marines. The crew chief called out that they’d made room for him on the SLIC carrying Sergeant Shotton and Berlin, and Wash got aboard.

  Parker and Denturo waited around for the next one.

  There was nothing else to do.

  Epilogue

  The Planet Spilursa

  Galactic Core

  It was raining on Wash’s home planet. Washam, now a captain thanks to a relentless press by the House of Reason, sat in a covered grandstand. He felt like a fraud in his Legion dress uniform, occupying a place of honor, up front with Berlin’s parents, among the elites of the planet.

  Spilursa’s planetary governor was finishing his remarks as the keynote speaker at Berlin’s memorial. It was a deliberate rebuke to House of Reason Delegate Roman Horkoshino, who by all rights should have been the one giving the address, having been the one to appoint Berlin and Wash in the first place. But his endless anti-Legion rants now looked to much of the galaxy as petulant and out-of-touch. Instead he sat at the edge of the grandstand, openly sulking with arms crossed. Berlin had been right: Horkoshino’s time in the House of Reason was drawing to an end.